Mommy, I'm Gay

Daddy: I know you have a girlfriend and I know that she is Indian.
Me: What.
Daddy: You brought home leftover curry last night. An Indian girl must have made it for you.

Actually Dad, it was Thai curry. So if anything, the stupid slut is from Thailand.

Mommy: Don't come home one day and tell me your girlfriend is pregnant.
Me: That would take a miracle.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?
Mommy: Do I need to buy you a box of condoms?
Me: Aaaaaaaalready have some.
Mommy: What?
Me: Huh?

I don't know how many more awkward conversations I can take. Whenever I go out, they joke about me going to see my girlfriend, which annoys me to no end. How dare anybody insinuate that I like girls? Sometimes, I want to turn around and say, "Actually, I am going to suck my boyfriend's giant penis. And then we are going to watch Up In The Air." But I keep it all in. I suppose this is the price I pay for, uhm, what is the word for the opposite of estrangement?

I can't put this off forever though. True, I could hump men all day and all night without my parents figuring anything out. But when it comes time for me to settle down, get married to a beautiful, tall, white man, and adopt a Vietnamese orphan girl, I can't exactly do it with my parents in the dark. And although I previously wrote it off as a narcissistic white boy's game, there is something unsettling about never telling your parents who you really are before they die.

So I guess one day, when the political climate is right, I will have to just do it. I would definitely come out to mommy first because she is the more sympathetic of the two and she just gets it. [It being fashion.] The problem is, I have trouble gauging what her reaction will be. Sometimes I purposefully expose her to gay things and observe her behavior.

Like one time I turned on CNN and there was a story about a man who was outed in Iran and then stoned to death on the street.

Mommy said, "That is ridiculous why would they do that?"

And then one time we watched Brothers & Sisters on a plane together and the two gay guys started making out.

Mommy thought that was major lolz.

So from what I can gather, her reaction will be somewhere between not taking me seriously and bludgeoning me to death with medium-sized stones.



Coming out can wait.

So I don't know what the point of this was.

Hunted

Sometimes I log onto my old manhunt account in an effort to forge platonic relationships with members of DC's homosexual underbelly.

This morning I received three unprecedented, and might I add unwarranted, negative messages.

Since I don't feel the need to protect the identity of people who are mean to me, here they are in all their glory.


Daitru90
Age:22
Location: Pentagon

Him: Try to look at the corner honey. There they use a stick. The sickness profile I have ever seen in my life
Me: i have no idea what you are talking about.
Him: of course you don't . That wouldn't suprised me a bit
Me: you are a ridiculous if you have nothing better to do than harpoon people you don't even know on a site like this. surely you can take your arrogance elsewhere; i am not amused. i'm also not sure where all of this negativity came from (maybe syphilis is slowly eating at your brain) but if you don't have enough of a sense of humor to take my profile with a grain of salt, than that is your problem and not mine. and if you're going to pick an argument with somebody, try making at least a little bit of sense.
Him: Mr. English speaker, why don't you just summarize your lengthy essay in one word "ego problem" That would save alot of our time. Anyway, I have so much fun. Hope to see you online soon.

I really couldn't make sense of what this guy was saying. Something about corners, sticks, and surprising him in the past tense. I'm glad he could recognize that I speak English but disappointed that he didn't know how to read my masterpiece essay. Isn't there some law that says you can't have sex before you can read? Well, there should be. I'm also upset because there should be a comma before ego problem (which is, incidentally, two words). But, I mean, he looks pretty good other than his asymmetrical breasts.

A few minutes later.


Newtodc2
Age:22
Location Pentagon

Him: Reading your profile make me empty a bottle of tylenols. You sure are def. the winner of sickness person on earth. With that attitude, Why don't you just come back to wherever the hell you from.
Me: learn English.
Him: Speak for yourself

Excuse me, my grammar is impeccable. I eat dangling modifiers for breakfast. In fact, I would like to point out that in telling me to, "come back to wherever the hell i from," instead of, "go back to wherever the hell i from," he implies that he is there too.

Also, who is he to tell me off, considering his profile reads, "all men are NOT created equal!"

Now, at first I was confused about these two seemingly independent occurrences. But then I thought, how many twenty-two year olds from Pentagon could be on manhunt at the same time using the word "sickness" incorrectly? Surely, less than two.

And finally.


Summersms20
Age:22
Location: DC

Him: Pitiful !!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Nice hair.
Him: Thanks but sorry I cannot say the same to you. You're got the look but with that profile, you sure got alot of attention

I don't know about him, but I was being sarcastic. Seriously, his hair looks like the surface of the mega-asteroid in Armageddon. This doesn't make me any less ecstatic about hearing that I've "got the look." But I have to wonder how many twenty-two year olds could be on manhunt at the same time mistaking "alot" for one word? Surely, no more than one.

Maybe this guy thought he was making some brilliant point that manhunt users should be less like me [smart and funny and cute] and more like him [illiterate]. But sadly, none of his three manifestations could amount to anything more than confusion on my part and hopefully, amusement on yours.




This was a lot of fun.

Heads & Balls & Shoulders

I don't usually give out advice on my blog. It makes me feel like one of those 40-somethings that cling desperately to their youth by trying to tell young gay boys how to live their lives with pearls of false wisdom. I am a firm believer that a stranger on the internet can't possibly "know exactly how you feel!" Don't trust them. Don't even trust me. Everyone should find their own way through life.

Ok, but I have to give you guys one bit of advice.

A few nights ago I went to the club with a few of my friends. At around 2am everyone was pretty tired and we all went our separate ways. I went to Tall Blonde Alcoholic's apartment to cuddle for a bit when we decided it would be a good idea to get freaky in the shower. So he grabbed his laptop, put it on the vanity, and played Disturbia, while I took off my clothes. Funny.

And then we got in the shower. And did the dirty. While getting clean!

The next morning, I woke up to the most excruciating pain ever in my balls. I thought I was going to die. Seriously killed by ball pain. So I put my clothes on and tiptoed out of the apartment, thinking an STD of some sort was involved and it was time for me to jump off the roof of the building out of shame.

Later that morning, Tall Blonde Alcoholic texted me, "Why do I have rug-burn on my balls?"

And then it dawned on me.

Me: Did you use Head & Shoulders as lube?
Him: Yes. Why?
Me: It contains zinc pyrithione! A potent heat shock response inducer that may cause DNA damage!

Actually, I didn't say that. I just looked that up on Wikipedia right now.

But the point is that now my balls look like the surface of Mars.

And I'm probably going to get cancer.

So next time my knees are behind my head [on my shoulders] I am not going to use Head & Shoulders. And neither should you.

Love: A Personal History

You grow up thinking it's perfectly normal that your parents love each other and hate each other at the same time. So it's also normal that they love you and hate you. You believe that every kiss should be paired with a slap and every "I Love You" is waiting for a retraction.

And then you are watching Step By Step and Full House and learn that real, anglo-saxon, American love is unconditional. You wonder why the people that say they love you can also hate you and ultimately hurt you. [It is because they are Asian.] So you force yourself to stop forgiving them for the way they make you feel and you decide to resent them instead. And when they say, "I love you," you stop believing. And where you used to respond, "I love you too," you don't say anything anymore.

But as you grow older you realize that this is not their fault. They cannot love you because they cannot understand you. They will continue to see what they want to see: the archetypal version of a son that will one day marry an Asian girl who will bear them three grandsons. And they will love that archetype with all of their hearts and they will love the real you the only way they know how. And though you still can't bring yourself to say you love them, you can appreciate their gestures.

And when you are all grown you think you don't need your parents' love. You know what real love is and you can find it in the form of a boyfriend or a naked French rugby player or through the unrequited adoration of Kim Yu-Na.

But the people you love can never love you back in the idealized manner you've always imagined. And when you are with your boy, all the little things bother you because they seem to tell you that, just like your parents, he loves you and he hates you.

And though you've convinced yourself you would be capable of loving somebody that truly understood you, you find that you are not so different from your parents. Like them, you are incapable of love. Because you don't know how to feel loved without feeling hurt.

Panda Hat(er)

To commemorate Tai Shan's last day in DC, I wear my cute fuzzy panda hat to work. It was a doubly good day to wear it because it was very cold outside and my cute fuzzy panda hat keeps my head and ears quite warm.

The receptionist sees my hat and smiles.
______, the bitch, says, "I like your hat."
My supervisor sees it and laughs for the first time since 2003.
Visitor A says, "Can I try it on?!"

The day is a success. Not only am I paying tribute to Tai Shan, I have made countless people on the metro and at work smile. I have brought joy to the world.

The next day I receive a call from my supervisor, who is working remotely.

Her: Did anybody talk to you about your hat?
Me: _____ said it was cute.
Her: Oh, I probably shoudn't say anything then.

She continues.

Her: Somebody came to me saying the hat was not appropriate for the workplace and it conflicts with the image we are trying to portray.
Me: Who said this.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: It was ____ from marketing wasn't it.
Her: I cannot tell you who said it.
Me: My life is over.
Her: I would not worry about this.
Me: If you need to reach me, I will have run myself through the paper shredder.

I was not trying to make a statement. All I wanted to do was pay homage to Tai Shan and wear something that was cute and fuzzy and warm. And now ____ from marketing has turned me into this frivolous sociopath trying to dismantle the company's meticulously polished brand image. Even worse, he has turned my cute fuzzy panda hat into a symbol of anarchy.

And before you wag your finger at me, take a moment to consider that I am not the one taking two hour lunch breaks to go to Georgetown Cupcake and renting a zipcar with the company card to take day trips to Philadelphia and New York City. But I am sorry. I am sorry for wanting to have fun and for being cute.

I never meant for my cute fuzzy panda hat to become an emblem of sweeping social change, but my cute fuzzy panda hat and I will show the world that cute fuzzy panda hats and professionalism belong side by side. When I show up next week, cute fuzzy panda hat and all, I will show the world that my cute fuzzy panda hat is the embodiment of corporate commitment to quality and integrity.

And ____ from marketing is just jealous that he isn't as cute as I am, anyway.

The Gay Couple

The gay relationship is a mysterious beast. Unlike the straight relationship, gay relatioships can't annouce themselves to the world, show their affection in public, or end in marriage. Well, maybe we can in West Hollywood [not the marriage thing] and most parts of Canada. But if you live anywhere else you're probably going to get clubbed to death like a poor baby seal.

With both of us still in the closet, and the background to our bad romance being a somewhat conservative city, it's difficult for me and Tall Blonde Alcoholic to do coupley things. Whenever we're out together I have this strange sense of unease. To calm my paranoia, we walk with our backs to each other so we have a 360 degree view of approaching lynch mobs. It's more romantic than it sounds.

When we go to the movies, we watch things like 2012 in its tenth week of release or Nine in its first week of release to make sure nobody is in the theater. When we go to dinner together we're not exactly snuggling it up in the booth and spoon feeding each other. And when we're in a big group, I tend to overcompensate by staying as far away from him as possible. Usually this is easy, though sometimes he mistakes this to mean I am mad at him. But this can prove difficult when he gets drunk and takes off his shirt and charges at me.

It's kind of hard carrying on like this. I feel like I have an obligation to pretend he's not important to me because I don't want to accidentally out him. I guess he feels the same way about me. But playing things cool all the time can really wear a couple down. At some point this brilliant deception is going to become a reality. Are we fooling the world or just fooling ourselves?


Our two month anniversary is in EIGHT days and I'm so excited!

Well, That Was Fun

It's always hard to know beforehand which posts are going to get a lot of attention and which ones aren't. Sometimes I poor my icy heart out into a post and the only person that comments is mother disguised as a fat middle-aged man disguised as a cute teenage boy.

I didn't expect people to get so excited about my little study on Jason Carwin. It's kind of thrilling. Apparently, the only thing I've learned from all of this is that if I want my blog to be any sort of success, I should just attack teenagers until they are all floating, lifeless in the blogging sea.

I try not to care about what people say in the comments. When people tell me I'm a good writer, I smile to myself and blush a little. But I don't really think of myself that way and I haven't exactly gotten any Pulitzers in the mail so that's that. When people disagree with me, I tend to think they've got their little minds backwards. But everyone has their opinion and I can tolerate that as much as I can tolerate heterosexuals. So that's that.

But when people are mean, I get kind of taken aback. Well, clearly I've done myself in because I'm the one that dedicated an entire post to writing off a poor innocent boy. But at least I had the decency to channel my aggression onto my own blog. For example, don't comment on my post calling me a seething, jealous bitch and then ask me how things are going with my boyfriend. Things are going fine, by the way.

I didn't think Jason was going to read the post. Some fucker probably tipped him off. Probably that bitch, Anon #5. But he left a nice comment which I respect as much as I can respect heterosexuals. So I suppose in this exchange he is the bigger man and the better person. Who knows, maybe even smarter fag (well, depending on who you ask).

I don't really regret what I've said but I regret where I'm coming from. I don't want anybody to be happy until I've found happiness for myself. I want to go to Yale and I want to Julie Powell-esque blog success and I want to attend the Golden Globes with Neil Patrick Harris. When I encounter people that have these things, I try to rationalize why I deserve it more. I need to get over that.

All things considered, I certainly don't think Jason should take my post to heart. As much as I have the right to be a bitch, he has the right to be happy about his acceptance. If I'd gotten in somewhere great, I probably would've jumped for joy and told Stavros Niarchos to suck my dick. And though I am hard-pressed to say so, in Jason's own way, he deserves it. Meanwhile, I still grasp desperately to the hope that one day I will achieve my own sort of success and acceptance. Because I think I deserve it too.

--edit--

It really bothers me that somebody with absolutely no readers and no comments has called my blog under-read. How would he even know? My sitemeter is password protected...

This person thinks he's Mother Willow because he's too mature to care about money and where he goes to school and "any of that shit." Please. That is just so naive. Hand me that $2 trashcan from Ikea so I can vomit in it.

Your parents paid for your private school (seriously doubt they were snipping school vouchers from the local newspaper) and probably paid for your college and will probably continue giving you whatever you want for the rest of your life no matter what you do / how unsuccessful your blog is.

And though this person finds me "absolutely disgusting," I have a feeling he will continue reading my blog and will probably have some sort of response in the form of a short witty comment. But I really hope he doesn't. This is the last thing I want to say about all of this.

But if he decides to write a follow up on his own blog about how horrible and tragic I am, I couldn't care less. Because if a tree falls and nobody is there to hear it, then your blog is a piece of shit.